Staff Sgt. Salvatore Giunta, Toronto RRF, twists uncomfortably. You'd think, after all the time training, preparing and in action, that these seats would become a bit more bearable. Wonder what the Old Man is up to? The sudden command to suit up and prepare for an all out assault on a ranch in the middle of Wyoming is puzzling on several levels. Mainly, what is wrong with using the Nevada RRF for this. Why is the intel, good though it is, a mix of civilian and security forces grade. Why is the hit time variable and not fixed. Why didn't I have a piss before suiting up. And why the hell did I agree to run this op in the first place. It has all the smell of a black op, something that Mama Giunta's little boy tries to avoid at all costs. People who know too much tend to get promoted, and I am really happy where I am.
Check the squad. Heavy battle armour obscures his vision in every direction, the uncovered heads of his squad showing like coconuts on top of tanks. Every one of them non-coms and up. Not a single short time grunt is in on this. He has lieutenants running howitzers, a major fondling a plasma cannon like a toy. Looks forward to where the Old Man is sitting next to the flight engineer in his own armour. Shakes his head a bit. The things you get pulled into for friendship …
* * *
Teams of men are steadily working through the wormhole. A heavy team of enforcers waiting to grab and subdue the conspirators as they are brought through. Hans is waiting to conduct the interrogations, giving a stamp of legitimacy to the whole operation. That will come in useful, should things ever come to trial.
Sergei, James, Luigi and Enrique are waiting. Sending two heavily armed bodyguards through with them to guard Enrique and hold the LZ. He insisted on going. Doing his bit on this final operation.
Don Brent stops pacing. “Remember. You need to extract your targets alive, if at all possible. Kill them if you absolutely have to, but we have no where near all the information we need on this conspiracy.”
Sergei nods. “We shall try.”
“Well, it is T minus 30. Good luck and good hunting.” Shake of each hand and watch them disappear through the wormhole. Pity about James. He is a good man, and has served well, but his horizons have been widened since meeting Sergei. I can see the inevitable as well as the next man, and will not try to hold him if he wishes to go the independent route. Now, there will be a bit of a power vacuum in places after tonight. How to take advantage of that …
* * *
A quiet chime from my phone, from Don Brent. Every team is now in place. Look around at my strike team. Good people, all of them.
“We go through all together in thirty five minutes. Certainly not risking a repeat of last time. Our target is the Soul Eater, everything else is secondary. Clean them out if you can, but do not pursue them. We can mop up later if necessary. We are looking at twenty eight confirmed demons, apart from the soul Eater, according to Observation.”
Smith snorts around the bandages covering half his face. “Only twenty eight? You sure you need us along?” A chuckle as the tension subsides from keyed up to alert readiness. Smile around at them. Reach down and ruffle Flash's ears. “OK people. This should be the last one for a while. Five minutes for the chaplain. Ready at the gate in twenty.” As they file out, I key in a sequence. Fifteen thousand kilometres away, in a drop ship hovering thirty kilometres above a certain fortified ranch in Wyoming, a light turns from red to green. Hope they are ready.
* * *
Light goes green. Giunta checks everyone's vitals, armour sealed, helmets on. With a shuddering groan, the belly of the drop ship opens like a clamshell, leaving the assault squad suspended by the shoulders from the clamps built into the top of each seat. The pilot jockeys the drop ship back into position as the clamps extend on their hydraulic arms. The clamps release abruptly and the squad falls like a neat grouping of stones towards the target area.
The four minute fall is not wasted. Fine control of the wrist, ankle and spinal jets, to keep on target, is left to computer control, only needing attention if the deviation needs a change in body orientation. Spend the time wisely, bringing weapons online and securing them in the armour clamps ready for landing. Not something you ever do in a drop ship, in case of an accidental discharge. Plus, there is simply no room to secure them in there. Flare of light flashes past as the flight engineer releases the smart bombs to take out the perimeter weapon emplacements and the microwave uplink. Take out the power and half the battle is won.
Point, five hundred metres below. Flashes of light as the smart bombs hit and demolish their targets. Point, touches down as the rest of the squad's anti gravity brake harnesses release and, with a crackle of lightning, bring them to a halt one metre off the ground before shorting out with a series of muffled pops. Take the remaining one metre fall easily, already sweeping for targets as the squad moves into position. See the Old Man raise his arm and press a button on something strapped to his wrist. In thirty places around the world, thirty other hands did likewise.
Query him.
“Shuts down any wormholes he may have running.” The Old Man explains while twisting, grabbing and disabling a guard that is ineffectually shooting at his armour. Now where the hell did he get that little toy from?
Shrug and check. I'll find out when I find out. Perimeter secured and squad advancing on the ranch, by the numbers. Confused resistance, minimal problems. A crew served flame gun gets off one shot, lightly toasting one of the point men, before being incinerated by the major's heavy plasma gun, along with its crew. So far, it is a textbook operation.
* * *
Luigi shivers. “I thought Rio was warm,” he hisses through clenched teeth. James and the two bodyguards had rapidly and efficiently taken care of the distracted, miserably sentries.
“Rain is good. Masks sensors and makes any guards careless.” Sergei is as relaxed as if back at Marta's, ignoring the steady downpour. “Enrique? Anything yet?”
“Si.” He checks his readouts. “All normal wormholes are down at every target, including Wyoming. There is still a functioning wormhole there – Astral Gate, not human made. No sign of anyone entering here yet, and my repeaters from Wyoming are showing no activity yet there either.” He checks his watch. “Two minutes until the Paris strike.”
Sergei gestures to Luigi and James. “We move in five.”
* * *
Dispatch is back to its normal bustle, but ragged. A little off key. I have gone straight there, instead of taking the time to see Nyasi. Missed Reg's memorial service, due to planning this strike op, and some of the people will want to talk to me. We were pretty good friends, in that strange non judgemental way that the very old and adults can have. Not that he ever acted old. A connoisseur of life's pleasures, even in his seventies. Spend some time, just talking to people. Not time wasted, time spent well. Joke and a smile, remembering his little ways, his fiery temper and his great heart. A couple of the other guys are working the room too. It slowly eases down into it's calm, steady pulse as the rest of the strike team arrive and take up their positions.
Make my way to front center, Flash at my side. Toes two centimetres from the line where the wormhole will flick into being. A gentle sigh from some of the Dispatch staff. I am either a fool, or have total confidence in Ness, Reg's replacement.
Probably a fool. But if he does not believe I have confidence in him, why should he have confidence in himself. Some seemingly foolish risks are worth taking for the effect they have. Look around.
“Let's do this.” Raise my thumb to Ness and hear the thumping groan as the wormhole fires up and stabilises. Walk through without looking back, into an open junction in the Paris sewers. Part of the storm drain system, it is dry, there has been no rain recently. As the others come through, glance down at my boots. At the fine, shiny surface where the wormhole had planed the leather off like a knife, leaving the steel toecaps peeking through.
Hong nods downwards. “Bit close.”
I smile wryly. “Needed some new boots anyway.” Glance around. “Lets go kill us a demon.”
* * *
“Milady?” Margareta's quiet voice stops my pacing. I have come up to the spa level, uncertain of where I should be. The Gods work in hints and elliptical fragments, but they normally get you where you need to go.
“¿Sí, mi hija más estimada? ” No need to prevaricate with Margareta.
“It is Luis. He is having nightmares. Would you spare the time to comfort him?” She looks pleading, not easy for a woman as proud as her. Almost automatically, my mind flicks to Luis. We have been through enough together that finding him is easy, as is reaching out to calm him, even from this distance. I watch his nightmare. And plunge into a swirling vortex of probabilities.
Disconnect shakily and swallow hard. “Capitano Cruz. Get us there fast. It is not a nightmare. It is a Sight. I cannot read it from here” She looks blankly at me for a second, then grabs my arm and runs for the nearest exit to the vehicle park, dragging me briefly before I get my running rhythm back.
“How long?” she manages as she throws a senior cardinal out of a cart and jams her over-ride key in the slot. We leave the vehicle park in a cloud of dust and spewed gravel.
“It is soon. Very soon.”
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